was tired out and was resting at one end of the sofa; Joe was stretched at
the other, without a pillow, and his legs tangled up among Dad's. Bill
and Tom squatted in the ashes, while Mother tried to put the fat-lamp into
burning order by poking it with a table-fork.

Dad was silent; he seemed sad, and lay for some time gazing at the roof.
He might have been watching the blaze of the glorious moon or counting the
stars through the gaps in the shingles, but he was n't--there was no such
sentiment in Dad. He was thinking how his long years of toil and worry
had been rewarded again and again by disappointment--wondering if ever
there would be a turn in his luck, and how he was going to get enough out
of the land that season to pay interest and keep Mother and us in bread
and meat.

At last he spoke, or rather muttered disjointedly, "Plen-ty--to eat--in
the safe." Then suddenly, in a strange and hollow voice, he shouted,"
THEY' RE DEAD--ALL OF THEN! I STARVED THEM!"

Mother DID get a fright. She screamed. Then Dad jumped up, rubbing his
eyes, and asked what was the matter. Nothing was the matter THEN. He had
dozed and talked in his sleep, that was all; he had n't starved anyone.
Joe did n't jump up when Mother screamed--not altogether; he raised
himself and reached for Dad's pillow, then lay down and snored serenely
till bed-time.

Dad sat gloomily by the fire and meditated. Mother spoke pleadingly to
him and asked him not to fret. He ran his fingers uneasily through his
hair and spat in the ashes. "Don't fret? When there's not a bit to eat
in the place--when there's no way of getting anything, and when--merciful
God!--every year sees things worse than they were before."